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Posts Tagged ‘Vinny Fitzpatrick’

The head of the Apocalyptic Council sat at his desk in the darkness. He couldn’t remember being a young man. He couldn’t remember being an old man, either. He could only remember the days when he had been less ancient, but he truly wanted to remember his younger days so he could undo the curse of immortality that had been placed upon him. This was the reason he had founded the Council, after all. Surely the end of the world would end him as well. It was all he dreamed about, all he wanted: the sweet embrace of death. He could not even remember the name he had been given at birth, and simply called himself Checker. He couldn’t remember why.

The door opened, letting in a sliver of light and a young man with claws.

Joshua leaned against the wall and took a steel file out of his pocket and began to sharpen his claws, “How are you doing today?”

“Absolutely wretchedly,” Checker hobbled over to a file cabinet and began paging through its files, “Any luck?”

“None whatsoever,” said Joshua, “We’ve sent out many agents to try and find out who you are and why you’re still alive. No luck yet. Also, we’ve had an infiltration.”

Checker slammed the file cabinet shut and hobbled back over to his desk, “Has it been taken care of?”

“Kind of,” said Joshua.

Checker cursed under his breath, “Kind of. How do you kind of take care of an infiltration? Did someone escape?”

“Nothing like that. We seem to have attracted some very interesting individuals.”

“How interesting?”

“Charleston Charge, for one.”

Checker hobbled back over to the file cabinet and began paging through the files contained within. The cabinet was a surrogate memory, though some things had been forgotten entirely. Joshua sat and waited patiently for Checker to pull out a file, read it, place it back into the cabinet, and hobble back to his desk.

Checker grinned, though his teeth had long ago been replaced with dentures, “Charleston Charge, eh? Good thing you’ve captured that one. According to my memory, he’s quite important. Could have put this entire operation in jeopardy.”

“That’s not all. We also captured a young man named Edwin Cloudstar. No, don’t bother going to your cabinet. He’s not in your memory,” said Joshua.

“He sounds familiar, though,” said Checker, “So familiar. Cloudstar. Hm. If he’s not in the cabinet then he can’t be important. Good work, all the same.”

“We also captured the Impossible Mister Frink and Vincenzo Fitzpatrick,” said Joshua.

Checker’s eyes lit up, “I remember those lads! Dashing young men. I remember seeing them so many years ago. Weren’t there more?”

“Yes. They weren’t here, but I think we should take the precaution of contracting some outside help with this. I’ve got contacts out there, and there’s probably more than a few people who would like a piece of the Basset Hound Brigade,” said Joshua.

Checker chuckled, “You know damn well that you and I have all the time in the world.”

“I know that, but really, sir. We’re on a time-table.”

“We’ve got time. It’s better to just move than to have our whole operation dismantled by the likes of them. Get on it, please. Release the prisoners, first. Give them a fight, but let them go. We mustn’t let on that they haven’t won, nor can we kill them. It’ll bring the rest of them down upon us” said Checker, leaning back in his chair.

“Of course,” Joshua left the room, grinning. He was itching for a fight.

***

Charleston Charge paced the cell while Mister Frink sat in the corner and thought. Vinny Fitzpatrick gazed longingly out the window while Edwin Cloudstar remained up against the wall, being unable to move.

“Back in the day, we could count on the Little Spick to get us out of jams like this,” said Vinny with a sigh, “Back in the day. I wonder what he’s up to?”

Vinny slumped to the ground, “Can’t we just wait for something to happen to you?”

“It’s impossible for anything to kill Edwin while we’re sitting in this cell,” growled Mister Frink.

Just then, a meteorite came flying through the window, hitting Edwin square between the eyes. It plowed through his brain and burrowed itself deeply into the wall. Vinny stared.

“We must act!” screamed Mister Frink, throwing himself against the door. It budged slightly, and Charleston aided him in the next impact. The door broke off of its hinges.

“Grab Edwin!” said Mister Frink, striding down the hallway. There were no guards. This bothered him.

Charleston threw Edwin’s body over his shoulder and Vinny followed. The quartet walked down the hallway to the next door, easily opening it.

“This can’t be right,” said Mister Frink, “There’s nothing in here but the sword.”

***

In the realm between life and death, Edwin watched as his companions carried his body down the hallway. There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to see a tan red-headed woman wearing a purple blazer and skirt, holding a clipboard.

“Nice to see you again,” she said.

“Nice to see you, too, Camilla. I’m pretty sure I haven’t fulfilled the prophecies,” said Edwin.

Camilla looked at her clipboard, “No. Of course you haven’t. So what mess have you gotten into this time?”

Edwin pointed to Charleston, “I’m helping that guy with the hat stop a group dedicated to the Apocalypse. They had to kill me so that they could reunite me with my sword.”

“Fun,” Camilla wrote something on her clipboard and it vanished, “How’d you get separated from it in the first place? You haven’t died for a while.”

“What?” Edwin’s brow furrowed, “Then how did this happen?”

“I don’t know,” said Camilla, “Well, looks like it’s time for you to get back to living. Be careful. Not that I don’t like seeing you, of course.”

“Of course,” Edwin vanished from the realm.

***

Fifteen minutes later, the quartet was wandering through the mysteriously empty halls.

“This isn’t right,” said Mister Frink.

“You’re telling me,” said Charleston Charge, sidling along the wall.

“I feel a disturbance,” said Edwin, stopping dead in his tracks, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword, “Not really. It’s more of just bad mojo.”

“Run,” said Edwin, attempting to force Joshua forward. Despite being dimensional twins, Joshua was stronger, and so this attempt met with failure.

As the pair continued to battle, Mister Frink and the others were running through the compound. Suddenly, there was a flash of light, and they fell to the ground.

***

Vinny Fitzpatrick awoke to find himself on Mister Frink’s couch. Charleston Charge was eating a plate of waffles on a cot next to him, while Mister Frink was already up and about. Edwin Cloudstar was nowhere to be seen, but Mister Frink’s son was there.

“Are you sure you don’t want the Neo-Bassets to track these people down?” he said, not wearing his uniform.

“You know them?” said Charleston, in between mouthfuls.

Brian Frink stopped, and then nodded slowly, “Yes. I’m their pal.”

“What happened?” said Vinny.

“Ah, good. You’re awake,” said Mister Frink, “It’s been nearly a week. To be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely sure what happened. All I know is that that compound has vanished into nothingness.”

“So we won?” said Vinny.

“I can only assume so,” said Mister Frink, pouring some tea.

“For the first time in years, I have nothing to do,” said Charleston, “It feels weird. I tell you what, though. I’m tendering my resignation with Brachiosaur. I’m going to do things my own way from now on. Maybe start a detective agency.”

“Bully for you,” said Mister Frink.

Vinny walked over to the table and took a cup of tea, “What happened to Edwin?”

“I don’t know,” said Mister Frink.

“The Neo-Bassets could find out,” said Brian.

“No. I don’t think we could find these people again unless they wanted to be found,” said Mister Frink.

***

Edwin Cloudstar floated in the void between universes once again, shunted once the Apocalyptic Council’s compound transported itself to its new location. Joshua was nowhere to be seen, and Edwin couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to his dimensional twin that made him think the Apocalypse was a good idea. Oh well. Soon, Edwin would either find his way back to a universe at some point soon.

Note: This is the finale of Choose Your Own Blogventure.Note #2: This takes place before March Meekrat Madness 2010.

Charleston Charge awoke to find himself in a closet, and remembered what he was doing there. There was a conspiracy to bring about the Apocalypse, or at least to keep it on track, and Charleston had somehow become responsible for making sure that the world didn’t end. He opened the door to see a tribe of Mayans standing in the hallway, some walking and chatting with each other, some drinking coffee. They all turned to him and Charleston slammed the closet door behind him and hoped and prayed that his ally, Edwin Cloudstar, was able to find him.

***

Deep within the bowels of the Apocalyptic Council’s headquarters, Edwin Cloudstar sat in a dank dungeon. It wasn’t the worst dungeon he had ever been in, to be certain, but it was still quite annoying because they somehow knew how to circumvent the mystical connection he had with his sword. Again, not the first time, but no less annoying than all the other times. He sat and hoped that his ally, Charleston Charge, would be able to find him.

***

The Impossible Mister Frink sat in his breakfast nook, sipping some tea and reading his paper, basically enjoying his morning. His adopted son, Brian, was off on some adventure with some costumed heroes, so it was a fairly quiet day. Most days had been quiet since the unofficial disbanding of the Basset Hound Brigade, in fact. Not too quiet, of course. A man like Mister Frink knew how to create his own excitement, after all, but it was still nice to have a quiet day every now and again.

There was a knock at the door, the sort of knock that insinuated that if you didn’t open the door, then it would be opened by force. Were Brian there, Mister Frink likely would have continued sitting there enjoying the comic strips. Since he wasn’t, he cracked his knuckles and walked over to the door.

Vinny Fitzpatrick was standing on the other side, holding his aviator cap and goggles in front of him.

Mister Frink sighed and opened the door, “Good morning, Vincenzo. What brings you here?”

“I know we only get the ol’ team back together for big things, Mister Frink, but I got word that there’s the mother of all trouble brewin’ down south,” said Vinny.

“Very well,” said Mister Frink, “I suppose we’re expected to just go down there and solve things?”

“I was hoping,” Vinny smiled, “Only I wasn’t able to get anyone else.”

Mister Frink’s eyebrow raised, “What’s Douglas and Jenkins doing that are so important?”

“They’re on a case,” said Vinny, “And Mister Lucky’s nowhere to be found.”

They walked to Mister Frink’s private airstrip, and along the way Vinny explained how he had found himself in contact with the new iteration of the spy organization, CAST, most notably a young woman who called herself E. A young man she knew had traveled south months ago and no one had heard from him since, and she was unable to travel there herself. Since she knew Vinny’s history with the Basset Hound Brigade, she hoped that he would at least check into it, which eventually led him to this point.

Mister Frink nodded, “Do we know where this complex is?”

“She says she don’t know,” said Vinny, “Could we take your plane? Only I had a bit o’ trouble wit’ mine.”

Vinny’s plane had been crashed, like the vast majority of his planes, into a small grove of trees several hundred yards from the airfield. He had never been able to land, except in the direst of circumstances. Mister Frink just tossed him the keys to the plane and hoped for the best.

***

Several hours later, the pair flew over some farmland.

“Have you been here before?” asked Mister Frink, pointing to a crashed bi-plane.

“Never,” said Vinny, “I think we’re on the right track. Look!”

A giant monster loomed in front of them, lumbering down the road, its massive black wings flapping slowly. As far as such things went, it wasn’t that terrifying, having the normal amount of arms and legs. Of course, all these arms and legs were tentacles, and its head looked like an octopus. It looked up and its giant coal-black eyes narrowed.

“It’s seen us, Mister Frink!” shouted Vinny, who threw the plane into a dive.

“Pull up, lad! Pull up!” screamed Mister Frink.

It was too late. The tentacle monster reached out and plucked the plane from the air. Instead of crushing it, he placed it gently on the ground, and then shrank, pulling his wings inwards. They formed a cloak around his body. He slithered over to the plane and knocked on the window.

“Are you two all right?” slobbered the demon.

Mister Frink and Vinny stared out the window, a look of shock upon Mister Frink’s face. Vinny, however, was either too afraid or too dumb to realize that he should be afraid, and gave the monster a thumbs-up. He hopped out of the plane.

“I’m so sorry about that,” said the tentacle monster, grasping Vinny’s hand, “I was in deep thought. I didn’t mean to make you crash.”

“No harm done,” said Vinny, gently pulling his hand away, “Say, you couldn’t tell us where some base for a bunch o’ Apocalypse nut-jobs is, could you?”

Mister Frink groaned.

“You’re the second two guys I’ve met today who are on their way there,” said the tentacle monster, “I’m S’treafael, but please, call me Steve. It’s right up the road. I’d love to help you storm the place, but I’m probably already in deep with my uncle.”

“No worries,” Vinny smiled. He saluted Steve and hopped back into the plane, “He said — ”

“I know what he said,” said Mister Frink, “Take us there, and for the love of God, keep us alive until we get there.”

***

Charleston Charge sat in the closet. He had built a small-scale model of his homeland, the Lost City of Uhld, out of various janitorial supplies. He pulled a voice recorder out of his pocket. He clicked the record button, “While trying to figure out what to do, I’ve built my home town. I would build a scale model of this place, but I’m not entirely sure what this place looks like.” He clicked it off and put the recorder back in his coat.

“At least they’re not trying to kill me,” said Charleston, idly knocking over bits of his model with flicks of his fingers, “They could totally get in here if they wanted to. Kill me right off.”

He leaned on his side and thought about taking a nap when he heard a noise. By the time he realized what it was, a small plane had crashed into the wall. Charleston barged through the door, knocking it from his hinges, and continued running down the hallway, holding onto his fedora-like hat. Behind him, the plane continued to come, by this time its wings had snapped off and it was just the cockpit and fuselage sliding down the hallway, knocking over Mayans left and right. It began to slow, and Charleston braced himself for its impact, hoping his low-level super-strength would be enough to stop it entirely.

The plane slid into his ready hands and his feet began to skid down the hallway, but Charleston could tell that the plane was slowing down. Behind him, a wall continued coming towards him, and he hoped he would stop before he became a pancake.

He grinned and laughed, “After all, I prefer waffles.”

Soon, the plane stopped, several feet away from the wall. Charleston stepped back and sat heavily on the ground, trying to catch his breath. The plane’s doors opened and two men he recognized as the Impossible Mister Frink and Vinny Fitzpatrick hopped out.

Vinny looked at him, “You Charleston Charge?”

“I am,” said Charleston.

“We’re here to rescue you, though it may not look like it,” said the Impossible Mister Frink, “Now then, shall we get going?”

“Not yet,” said Charleston, “My friend is somewhere in this complex. Also, these people are trying to bring about the Apocalypse. Or make sure it happens. I’m not really sure. We have to stop it.”

“You were trying to stop it by yourself?” said Mister Frink, obviously impressed.

“No,” said Charleston, “I had a friend with me. Is Mister Lucky with you guys?”

“He was busy with other matters,” said Mister Frink, “Though I’m sure if he thought he was required to stop these people, then he’d be here by now.”

Just then, all the Mayans that had fled when the plane began to crash through the hallway returned. They took their spears and pointed them at the two Bassets and Charleston Charge. It didn’t take a genius to know what they wanted.

***

“I’m so glad you found me,” said Edwin, “I really mean that. Even if this really stinks as a rescue attempt.”

Charleston Charge was shackled to the wall next to him, with shackles strong enough to withstand his super-strength, “It’s not like we planned this.”

“I know. At least we’re all together now,” said Edwin, “Who are those guys?”

Vinny smiled, lying on his side. Both his hands and ankles had been tied. Mister Frink has shackled to the wall on the opposite side of Edwin and Charleston.

“Those are Vinny Fitzpatrick and Mister Frink. Two members of the Basset Hound Brigade,” said Charleston, “They’re adventurers. Bassets, this is Edwin Cloudstar.”

“Are they? Good,” said Edwin, “I’ve seen stranger.”

“Your hands aren’t bound,” said Mister Frink.

“They don’t need to. My sword’s on the other side of this wall, and the only way it leaves my back is if I grab hold of its hilt,” said Edwin, “It’s a mystical thing.”

“Vincenzo is, for some reason, not secured in any way,” said Mister Frink, “I can’t imagine why our captors would do this, but we can work this to our benefit. Vincenzo, please see if you can make your way over to Edwin. Good, good. Now, Edwin, can you untie Vinny’s hands? Good. I would hate to have to stand alone against these ruffians.” Mister Frink took a deep breath and then tore his shackles from the wall, freeing himself.

Charleston’s eyes went wide, “You’re super-strong?”

“Indeed I am, though I do prefer to use my wits instead of my fists. Needs must, however,” said Mister Frink. He grabbed hold of Charleston’s shackles, “On the count of three, boy! One. Two. Three!”

The shackles resisted at first, remaining secure against the wall, but eventually gave when Vinny lent his own strength to the effort.

“Now what?” said Edwin, still unable to free himself, “How am I going to get free?”

“What would Mister Lucky do?” asked Vinny.

Mister Frink chose to ignore that comment, knowing full well that there was no way he could match Mister Lucky’s intelligence. He was still quite formidable in that department, able to craft machines that pushed against the laws of the universe. Mysticism was not one of his strong suits, however, and so the mechanisms of the sword’s bond with Edwin were a puzzle he could not solve. Something else puzzled him, though.

“How did you get into this position in the first place?” asked Mister Frink.

“They killed me and tossed my body in here, and my sword in the other room,” said Edwin, “When I came to, I was stuck against this wall.”

“Hold on, killed you?” said Vinny, stepping back, “You a vampire?”

“No, I just can’t stay dead,” said Edwin, “I’m still not entirely sure how they did this. Usually, the only one able to lift my sword is me.”

Charleston turned to Mister Frink, “Couldn’t you just impossible us out of this situation?”

“It’s passive,” said Mister Frink, “So if you’re killed, the sword can leave your body, but the only one who can lift your sword is you?”

“That’s what I said. I guess they could have moved my body,” said Edwin.

“You’re not from this place, are ya?” asked Vinny, “You got the air of a traveler about ya.”

“No, I’m from a different universe,” said Edwin.

Vinny nodded, “You don’t stay in this business this long without picking up a few things.”

“We could smash through the prison door and the door to wherever they put Edwin’s sword, and then kill Edwin and carry his body to his sword,” said Charleston Charge, “Not the perfect plan, I grant you, but it’s the only one I’ve got.”

“Could work,” said Edwin.

***

Elsewhere in the compound, the second-in-command of the Apocalyptic Council sat and watched their captives on a closed-circuit television. He was sure they didn’t know they were being watched, and was quite pleased that none of them had realized what had gone on. He smiled. It was only a matter of time now.

It was the early nineties, and Mister Lucky, famed member of the Basset Hound Brigade, found himself tied to a chair. He was quite surprised, as this sort of thing hadn’t happened in decades. Since he was a rookie, in fact, just starting out in the adventuring business. A cold shiver went up his spine as he realized that he was genuinely surprised by this turn of events. While to the world at large he was the Luckiest Man in the World, he was actually the smartest man who ever lived, and had long been able to extrapolate what would happen to him using his excessive intelligence. Surprise was something that no longer happened to him. As he tried to free himself from his bonds, he felt his finger brush against another finger, followed by a low groan. Another surprise. It was not a very good day.

Mister Lucky tried to turn to look at his fellow prisoner, but whoever tied him to the chair knew darn well that a knot had to be tied ungodly tight to trap Mister Lucky. He settled on whispering, “Hey there, I’m Mister Lucky, and today’s your lucky day, because I’m going to get us out of this mess! But wait, there’s more! When I find out who did this, I’ll kick his teeth in!”

He waited a few moments for the other prisoner to respond, and when he did, Mister Lucky instantly recognized the voice of Shoshy Raphael, “Not my lucky day if I’m stuck here with you.”

“Sure it is. You’re some Detroit councilman, you’re on the straight and narrow! It’s my job to save people like you, long as you don’t try to kill me first,” said Mister Lucky, “Now let’s see about getting out of here.”

A light went on, momentarily blinding Mister Lucky. He bet it did the same to Shoshy Raphael, and another groan confirmed this. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a figure standing in the shadows.

“You’re awake. Good. I was getting bored,” said the figure, “My name is unimportant, but my message is quite important.”

“Well then, Unimportant, give us the message and let us go on our way,” said Mister Lucky, smiling wryly.

“I’m not stupid,” said Unimportant, “For too long, you and your kind have been a cancer upon this world. Adventurers and costumed heroes and the like running around thinking they’re better than the average man. I’ve taken the liberty of reuniting the Basset Hound Brigade and Nantucket Dragon Group, or at least those I could find, and there’s quite the surprise waiting for all of you once you’re out of here.”

“What kind of surprise?” slurred Shoshy Raphael, probably coming off the effects of some sort of drug.

“If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?” said Unimportant, “In five minutes, I’m sure you’ll both be free. Then you’ll find out what the surprise is.”

The light went off and a door opened. Mister Lucky’s mind and hands began to race.

“He didn’t gloat,” said Mister Lucky.

“So,” said Shoshy Raphael.

“Villains gloat. It’s what they do,” Mister Lucky managed to free one of his hands and began work on the other, “So either he’s not a villain, or… I don’t know.”

Shoshy Raphael sat straight up, “You don’t know?”

“Why’s that so surprising,” said Mister Lucky, freeing his other hand and working on the other bonds, “I’m the World’s Luckiest Man, not the smartest one.”

Shoshy slouched, “Yes. Of course. Are you almost free?”

Mister Lucky stood up and began untying Shoshy Raphael, “Sure am! Sit tight, councilman, I’ll get you out of here in a jiffy.”

A minute and twenty seconds later, Shoshy Raphael stood up. Neither he nor Mister Lucky looked a day older than they had in the nineteen-twenties, owing their longevity and youthfulness to a mystical dragon ring and an immortality serum, respectively. Mister Lucky closed his eyes and turned on the light. The door was open, at once inviting and menacing.

“I’m not looking forward to this surprise,” spat Mister Lucky, making his way to the door regardless. He looked out and saw a dimly-lit warehouse, and not a very good one, either. There was a catwalk connecting several second-story rooms and an empty floor. No boxes at all. In addition to a normal door, there were two loading docks.

Shoshy Raphael joined him at the doorway and peeked out, holding his ivory cane in front of him, “No boxes? What is this world coming to?”

“I know,” said Mister Lucky, “Back in the good old days, you made sure there were boxes to buckle swashes off of and all that.”

“Remember the Charleston Death Ray,” asked Shoshy Raphael, “You almost didn’t make it out of that one.”

“I think that was your most fiendish plan,” said Mister Lucky, almost smiling.

Shoshy Raphael did smile, “Why is that? The casualties? The far-reaching implications of such a device?”

“Nope,” said Mister Lucky, “If it wasn’t for that, I think that stupid Charlie Charleston would never have shown up.”

“Ah, yes. Charlie. During the second Great War, we all joked that he was the true force behind Adolf Hitler,” said Shoshy Raphael, “Could you imagine it? A legion of Nazis dancing the Charleston across the battlefield? A race of Aryan Supermen who were exceptional at dancing that infernal dance.”

“I shudder to think,” said Mister Lucky, “Just because I’m all chummy with you right now doesn’t mean I like you. I still think you’re one of the worst eggs I’ve ever come across.”

“Of course. My hatred for you is matched only by my hatred for Edwin Cloudstar,” said Shoshy.

“Who? Never mind, let’s check the other rooms. See if our compatriots are in them,” said Mister Lucky.

A quick check of the rooms revealed the Amazing Rando tied to a chair with Vinny Fitzpatrick, Guerdon Trueblood shackled together with the Impossible Mister Frink, Guy Magistro chained to a wall with Jojo Jenkins by his side, and Simon McCockindale in a room with Dick Douglas. All had been visited by Unimportant.

As if on cue, a large television screen flipped down from the ceiling and the silhouetted Unimportant appeared on its screen. The collective members of the Basset Hound Brigade and Nantucket Dragon Group looked up and waited.

“By my estimates, you should all have escaped by now. Don’t bother looking for me, as I’ve been gone for several minutes, and I took measures to keep you from following me. Now, if you’ll look down, you’ll see two loading bay doors. If my instructions are followed, then they should be opening now,” said Unimportant. The doors did, in fact, open and ten men walked out of the trailers. The Bassets and Nantucket Dragon Group looked down upon them warily. Unimportant continued, “I scoured the Earth to find beings who were your polar opposites. Anti-Bassets and Anti-Dragons, if you wish. It’s my hope that you all kill each other, though I admit my hopes aren’t very high. Have at it, gentlemen.”

The screen ascended and the ten men stared up at the Basset Hound Brigade and Nantucket Dragon Group.

“It’s impossible for us to survive,” gasped Mister Frink.

“Anything’s possible,” said a hippie, among the men on the ground, “I can do what you do, Mister Frink. You can call me the possible Mister Harold.”

“I never liked hippies,” said Mister Frink, under his breath.

“There’s no chance you can beat us,” said Mister Lucky, “I mean, look at you? Are you supposed to be my guy?”

A hulking brute of a man dressed like Mister Lucky just stared, “I’m Mister Unlucky. We’re gonna kill you dead.”

“I like him,” said Shoshy Raphael with a grin, “Right to the point. Nantucket Dragon Group, it would appear that they’re one short, and I’m sure we’re all terribly busy, so why don’t we end this quickly?”

“It’s been years since we done that,” said Simon McCockindale, “You think he’s still around?”

“Of course,” said Guy Magistro, “He’s a demon.”

“True,” said Simon McCockindale.

“Fire,” said Shoshy Raphael, thrusting out his fist.

“Earth,” said Guy Magistro, doing the same.

“Air,” said Guerdon Trueblood.

“Water,” said the Amazing Rando.

“Energy,” said Simon McCockindale.

The five dragon rings each emitted a beam of energy, meeting in the center of the room and drilling into the ground. Moments later, in a flash of brimstone and fire, the demonic hobo Baggy Satan emerged.

“What’s all this, then?” he said, honestly confused. He looked around and realized what was happening, “You lot! Just the other day I was having a chat with me mate about you! How long’s it been?”

“Decades,” said Shoshy Raphael, “If you would, destroy all those men on the ground.”

Baggy Satan’s eyes glowed with happiness, “Truly? No pullin’ levers or makin’ bears out of pizza? Just straight up hellfire an’ brimstone?”

“Yes!” said Shoshy Raphael.

The men on the ground began to converse nervously, and then they all stepped back. The possible Mister Harold waved to the Basset Hound Brigade and Nantucket Dragon Group, “Sorry, fellas, but we quit. Come on, Mister Unlucky.”

The veins on Mister Unlucky’s neck throbbed, his eyes bulged, and his suit tore. He turned to the possible Mister Harold and growled at him, “No!” He ran at Baggy Satan and punched him into a wall, leaving an imprint. There was a collective gasp, “I don’t run!”

“We do,” said Mister Harold, “Good luck taking on ten men and a demon.”

With that, the Anti-Bassets and Anti-Dragons disbanded, leaving only Mister Unlucky to oppose the Nantucket Dragon Group and Basset Hound Brigade.

“I don’t run, neither,” said Baggy Satan, standing up and wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth, “Let’s see you do that again!”

Mister Unlucky cracked his knuckles and lumbered towards Baggy Satan, who lashed out with a flaming uppercut that threw Mister Unlucky into the air. He landed with a sickening crack, but immediately stood back up, tearing out a piece of the floor and hurling it at Baggy Satan. The demon countered it with a stream of hellfire, and then turned the fire on Mister Unlucky. He shielded his face from the fire and strode through it as if it were water, back-handing Baggy Satan once he reached him.

“Should we help?” said Vinny Fitzpatrick.

“Already on it,” said Mister Lucky, who took out a notebook, wrote something down, and slid the notebook into his pocket. Scant seconds later, a hundred Mister Luckys appeared in the warehouse and all of them swarmed Mister Unlucky. The brute easily threw them off and used several of them as weapons against Baggy Satan.

“He’s impossible to defeat,” said Mister Frink, whose words caused the large television to fall from the ceiling and crash upon Mister Unlucky, knocking him to the ground. Baggy Satan spat on him and vanished back into Hell and all the Mister Luckys dissolved into goo. The one true Mister Lucky made his way down and walked over to the fallen brute.

He checked for a pulse, “Oh my god. He’s still alive.”

“Quite a feat,” said Shoshy Raphael, “Now then, are we going to continue this little team-up or can we all go our separate ways?”

“We’re done here,” said Mister Lucky, nudging Mister Unlucky with his foot, “Be on the look-out, though. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of this Unimportant. Or Mister Unlucky.”

It was a lovely spring day, seemingly like any other, and most of the city’s notable citizens were gathered at Central Park to celebrate the city’s upper crust, its most generous citizens. Among those gathered were Mister Lucky, the Impossible Mister Frink, and Dick Douglas, who had been invited by the mayor himself.

“There’s absolutely no reason for us to be here,” groaned Mister Lucky, looking at his pocket watch, “It’s a complete waste of our time, and I don’t like the fact that we left Jojo, the Little Spick, and Vinny Fitzgerald in charge of things. Who knows what trouble they’re getting into?”

“Yes, our unique talents do seem to be wasted here,” said Mister Frink, trying to deal with the situation with the legendary stiff upper lip of the Britons. He was not doing a very good job, and seemed to be on the verge of shouting at someone.

“This is the worst free play I’ve ever been to,” said Dick Douglas, reclining on the grass, “When are they going to stop just milling around and get to actually doing something?”

Mister Lucky put away his watch and was about to leave when a large blond man took the stage, “Look, that big fella’s about to say something!”

The man took the microphone and smiled at the crowd, the sun glinting off his perfect white teeth, “Hello, fellow philanthropists and people working for a better tomorrow! As many of you know, I’m Adam Supreme, and the mayor has asked me to say a few words on behalf of the Committee for a Better Tomorrow. In order for us to have a better tomorrow, we certainly have to work for it, and there are some in this fair city of ours who want nothing more than to upset the delicate balance we’ve achieved so far. This, my friends, is the worst form of injustice: trying to undo what others have worked so hard to achieve…”

"We have to act quickly," said Mister Lucky, glad to have something to do, "I'll go try and warn Supreme, you two go after the assassin!"

"Indeed!" said Mister Frink, sprinting towards the gun.

"Meh," said Dick, who lied down and put his hat over his face.

Mister Lucky grabbed his hat and threw it after Mister Frink, "Just do it, Dick!"

"Fine, fine," Dick grudgingly got up and stalked off after Mister Frink, picking up his hat on the way, "I'm going."

"We must hurry," Mister Frink ran back, grabbed Dick by the arm, and began running again, dragging the detective behind him, "If we don't make it to the tree line before the assassin shoots, then a man might fall this day!"

"We want to capture him if we're able, and then question him, of course," said Mister Frink.

"Oh yeah, of course. So shouting is a no-go," said Dick, reaching into his coat for his gun, "What if I shoot him?"

Mister Frink turned to him and scowled, "I think it would serve us best if you would keep you mouth shut and kept running!"

"Fine, Mister Grump," muttered Dick, though he was nearly drowned out by the sound of a gunshot, "We're too late, anyway."

Mister Frink let go of Dick and kept running, "No, there's still a chance that we may be able to catch him, but I fear it's impossible for anyone to save Adam Supreme now!"

"I don't see why you're so worried," said Dick, slowing down to a casual saunter, "The guy seemed like kind of a self-righteous jerk."

Mister Frink shouted back to Dick, knowing that once the assassin's deed was done, the need for stealth was negligible, "He seemed like a good man to me, and I consider myself to be an excellent judge of character. Look, descending from the treetops! The assassin!"

"Eh, he's getting away. Oh well," Dick stopped to nudge a dead squirrel with his foot, "Let's go back, I think they had some food, and no one's going to be eating it since that Supreme guy got shot."

"No! I shall persevere!" screamed Mister Frink as he launched himself at the retreating assassin.

Dick stared in amazement as Mister Frink flew through the air, tackling the assassin with a heavy thud, "Jesus, you probably crushed that guy."

Mister Frink stood up, lifting up the assassin with one hand, "He is unharmed, except he appears to be a harlequin!"

"No, that's a clown," said Dick.

Mister Frink chose to ignore him, "This is positively bizarre."

***

As the gun went off, Adam Supreme stopped speaking and looked up, "What was that?"

By this time, Dick Douglas and Mister Frink, clown assassin in tow, had made their way back to the stage. Adam Supreme and Mister Lucky watched them, and all the blood drained from the latter's face. Adam noticed, "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," said Mister Lucky quietly, "We'll be by around seven."

Adam Supreme looked at him for a moment and then walked away as Mister Frink and Dick Douglas walked to the stage. Mister Lucky hopped down and Mister Frink tossed the clown down in front of him.

"I see that," said Mister Lucky, unable to tear his bespectacled eyes from the clown, "We have to turn him over to the police, I guess."

"So he almost killed that Supreme guy," said Dick, leaning against the stage, "He should get a medal, not jail-time!"

"I won't hear you say an unkind word about Adam Supreme," said Mister Lucky, who had begun to feel the same odd connection with Supreme as Mister Frink felt, "He's invited all the Bassets over for dinner."

"Aw, shucks, do I have to go?" said Dick, pouting.

"We're all going," said Mister Lucky, "Even Jojo and the Little Spick."

"Aw nertz," said Dick, "Pardon my French, but you're a pain in the rear!"

"Not to interrupt, but the clown has gone quite limp," said Mister Frink, leaning over the assassin.

"Mister Lucky probably bored him to death talking about Supreme," said Dick.

"I'd say it's far more likely that he took a poison capsule after he got captured," said Mister Lucky, deep in thought, "It doesn't matter. Just toss the body somewhere, we have other things to worry about."

"More important than a suicidal assassin clown?" said Mister Frink, who couldn't believe the malarkey that was coming out of his mouth.

Mister Frink watched him walk away and a deep sense of unease fell upon him, "Yes, but it's something he alone must face, I think. Let's get back to the Fox's Den. We must prepare for tonight. Whatever is happening, I doubt this clown is the end of it."

***

Around seven, the Basset Hound Brigade arrived at Adam Supreme's house, which was a mansion on the outskirts of the city.

"Golly!" said the Little Spick in awe, "I ain't never seen a house this big!"

"My granddaddy used to work at a house like this," said Jojo Jenkins, "Then he and his friends burned it down."

"Why'd they do that? Oh!" said Vinny Fitzpatrick.

"Well, it was during the war, and my granddaddy and his friends were just fed up with being treated like slaves," explained Jojo.

Vinny looked at him while still trying to look at the house, "They weren't?"

"No, they was," said Jojo darkly, "Until they burned the house down."

"Yeah, I know how he felt," said the Little Spick, "I burned down this one workhouse I used to live at. Best thing I ever did."

"Maddon! You two are the devil's own brand o' nuts," said Vinny.

"Enough chatter, you three," said Mister Lucky, walking past them and motioning for them to follow, "We have to be on our best behavior. That means no stealing. Any of you."

Dick grumbled, "You take one cup from a place and you get branded for life. I don't even want to be here. This Adam Supreme is bad news."

"You're the only one who thinks that," said Mister Frink, who had combed his beard for this occasion.

They reached the front door and before they knocked, Adam Supreme opened it, wearing an apron, "Hello, Bassets! Come on in, dinner will be ready soon. Until then, I've got a slight problem."

"Told you," said Dick, "He just wanted us to come over and fix his problem for him."

"Shut up, Dick," said Mister Lucky, "What's the problem?"

"Since I got home from the banquet, someone keeps shooting things at my house," said Adam, removing the apron, "Strange things."

"What sort of things?" said Mister Frink.

"Little people with pointed helmets," said Adam.

"Midget bullets?" said Dick, immediately scanning the skies for any sign of such a thing.

"Yes, I suppose you could call them that," said Adam, "You've gone all white again, Mister Lucky."

"I just need to get inside," croaked Mister Lucky, "That's all."

The team followed Adam inside, and the Little Spick looked at the splendor surrounding him, "Golly! It's even better on the inside! A man could eat like a king all his life with all this loot!"

Adam wagged a finger at him, "A man could also eat like a king by working hard and staying on the straight and narrow, young man. Earning your way in life is better than just surviving."

"Yeah, I guess so," said the Little Spick dejectedly.

"Of course, tonight you can eat your fill and more," Adam placed his hand on the Little Spick's shoulder, "All of you can!"

There was a knock on the door and Adam walked over and opened it. No one was there, save for a package. He picked it up, "I wonder what's inside."

"Don't open it," said Mister Lucky, "I think it's a very good idea not to open it."

"Don't be silly," said Adam, placing the box on a table, "What's the worse that could happen?"

"You should listen to the man," said a voice. Everyone turned as a man stepped out of the shadows, "He is known for his luck, after all."

Adam Supreme grabbed an umbrella from the stand by the door and held it in front of him, "Who the blazes are you?"

"Mister Lucky knows me all too well," said the man.

"I certainly do, PT Barnum!" said Mister Lucky, venom in his voice.

"But didn't you die years ago?" said Adam Supreme.

"That's just what I want the world to think," said PT Barnum, "I'm a master showman, after all, and all the world's my stage."

"Why is the owner of a circus trying to kill Adam Supreme?" said Mister Frink.

"I'll tell you why," said PT Barnum, pulling a telescoping baton from his belt. He pointed it to Mister Lucky, "It's all because of him!"

"I find all of this hard to believe, especially that," said Adam Supreme, "Besides, why would you attack me because of Mister Lucky?"

PT Barnum whipped his baton at a chair and it telescoped to it, wrapping around it, and the chair was pulled towards Barnum, who sat upon it, "It all started years ago, before Mister Lucky joined the Bassets, when he was just a man wandering around the country getting by on his luck. You know how he operates, don't you?"

"I certainly do," said Adam Supreme, "He's the World's Luckiest Man! Good luck happens all around him, and he uses that to perform good deeds."

"Yes, and as you know, a circus has no need for the world's luckiest man," said Barnum, "However, I happened upon Mister Lucky performing a feat of so-called luck and it got me to thinking that, perhaps, he wasn't the world's luckiest man!"

"Then what is he?" said Adam Supreme skeptically.

PT Barnum stood up and kicked the chair away, forcing it to flip through the air and land where it had originally sat, "The world's smartest man, which would be an attraction indeed! However, until he joined the Basset Hound Brigade, I was unable to find him and test my theory. Now, though, I had the happy circumstance to be performing in New Jersey and heard about the banquet in the park. It was the perfect chance to see if Lucky was, indeed, lucky."

"Hold on a second," said Dick Douglas, attempting to digest all this information.

"Yes?" said Barnum.

"The circus is in town?" said Dick.

"Yes," said Barnum, sidling up to Dick, "The famed Dick Douglas, no doubt acting dumb in order to lure me into a corner! It won't work."

At the Fox’s Den, headquarters of the world famous Basset Hound Brigade, the team was enjoying a rare night in when suddenly trouble stuck! In the form of a man knocking on the door! The first on the scene was Jojo Jenkins, gardener.

“Hello?” Jojo answered, but as he opened the door he was met with a flash of blinding light.

“Gee whiz, what a story!” said the light, though as it dimmed it revealed a short stocky man in a pork-pie hat with a “PRESS” ticket sticking out of its brim, “The Basset Hound Brigade keep a slave!”

Jojo stepped back nervously, raising his hands defensively, “Why you taking my picture? I never did no crime!”

Jojo’s cries did not go unheard, and the Impossible Mister Frink joined him at the doorway, “What’s going on here, Mister Jenkins?”

Jojo pointed to the reporter outside, “That man just took my picture!”

“A slave and one of our British oppressors? The Basset Hound Brigade is a regular house of sin,” exclaimed the reporter, snapping more pictures, “This is the story that’ll take me right to the top!”

“Oh dear,” sighed Mister Frink as he rolled up his sleeves and approached the newspaperman, “You must be a newspaperman. I believe our official policy is to turn you out upon your arse and wish you the best.”

“I’ve no doubt about that,” said the reporter, escaping Mister Frink’s grasp with the ease of one who had done so many times before, “What else do you have in there? Vampires? Automatons?”

The Little Spick, commander of the Orphan Freelance and member of the Basset Hound Brigade, chose that inopportune moment to join his compatriots at the doorway, “What’s goin’ on here?”

The reporter snapped more pictures, deftly moving so that he could see past Jojo and Mister Frink, “Why, hello there, son! I’m Arlo Flannery, newspaperman! What do you know about this Basset Hound Brigade?”

The Little Spick grinned and jammed his thumb into his chest proudly, “Why, I’m a bona-fide member!”

Arlo nodded, “What do your parents have to say about that?”

“Nothing, on account of me not havin’ any!” said the Little Spick, still grinning.

Arlo shot more pictures, “Child labor! Not only that, but minority child labor! I know we don’t have any laws against that sort of thing, this being the nineteen-twenties, but it’s still sensational! Off I go to make a name for myself by dragging yours through the mud! Farewell, gentlemen!” With that, Arlo Flannery tipped his hat and ran off.

Jojo turned to Mister Frink, “We’re in trouble, ain’t we?”

“Indubitably,” said Mister Frink solemnly, “We must alert the rest of the Bassets!”

***

In no time flat, the team was assembled in the study. Mister Lucky paced back and forth in front of a statue of the team’s founder, Horatio Chan, who was otherwise indisposed. Mister Frink stood against the wall, arms crossed, while the rest of the team lounged on various couches and chairs.

“I thought we had an agreement with the newspaper,” ranted Mister Lucky, waving his arms, “We keep providing the derring-do and they don’t try to pull stunts like this!”

“Faith and begorrah,” said Vinny Fitzpatrick, the team’s pilot, tears welling in his eyes, “What are we going to do?”

Mister Lucky slammed his fist on a nearby desk, “For one thing, it’s pretty clear to me that anyone with a skeleton in their closet is going to cause this guy to jump to some crazy conclusion. Which means that, god help us, Dick Douglas is our only hope.”

Vinny Fitzpatrick looked up in shock, “But Mister Lucky, what did you ever do that was wrong? You don’t got anything to worry about.”

Mister Lucky stared at Vinny and loosened his bow-tie, “Why, I was one of the founding members of the Orphan Freelance. That’s it. No other skeletons in my closet. Heh.”

“Sorry for bringing it up,” said Vinny, who remembered he was distraught and began almost crying once again.

“It’s all right, you didn’t know. No one did,” said Mister Lucky, tightening his bow-tie again, “Anyway, that’s why Dick’s our only hope. As far as I know, he’s the only one of us without any blemishes on his record. Well, not his personal record, anyway.”

“So I’m the only hope, huh?” said Dick Douglas, who had been reclining on a couch and forcing Jojo to stand, “Well then, I guess that I’m on the case! Uh, what am I doing again?”

“You have to track down this Arlo Flannery person and convince him not to do whatever he’s planning,” said Mister Lucky.

Dick stood up and walked to the door with a swagger, “Heh. Yeah, that’s right. This is a job only Dick Douglas can do, and the rest of your jokers better not forget it.”

After he left, Mister Lucky turned to the rest of the team, “While he’s keeping Arlo busy, let’s find a new headquarters and think up a new name for ourselves. In fact, we might as well try to think up pseudonyms, too.”

***

Dick Douglas wandered the streets, searching high and low for his quarry but also trying to find his office and remember exactly what he was supposed to be doing. After wandering around the city for half an hour, he finally found his office and sat down in his chair and leaned back, putting his feet on the desk.

“I remember when this office was haunted,” said Dick, reminiscing about the founding of the Basset Hound Brigade, “That was a mystery and a half, but I solved it, I did, and took down those Nazi jewel thieves! And I can solve this case! Whatever it is, no matter how many Nazis I have to take down. Huh. Maybe I should have written down what my case is…”

There was a knock at the door and Dick sat up, “Come in?”

The door creaked open, revealing Arlo Flannery, “I’m looking for a private eye to help me dig up some dirt on the Basset Hound Brigade.”

“So you came to the best,” said Dick, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Arlo sat down in the chair opposite Dick’s desk and shook his head, “No, I came to the cheapest.”

Dick didn’t miss a beat, “That’s because I don’t want to deny anyone my keen detection skills. Who did you say you were?”

“The name is Flannery. Arlo Flannery,” the reporter held out his hand, “I’m a newspaperman and this story I’m working on is going to be my big break!”

Dick completely ignored Arlo’s hand, “What story is this?”

Arlo, nevertheless, kept it raised, “The one about the Basset Hound Brigade. You know, maybe I can find someone else.”

Dick continued ignoring Arlo’s hand, but went on the offensive, “Ah, no. I’m just being thorough. I need the money up front.”

Arlo’s hand finally went down, reaching into his pocket to get his money clip. He paged through the paltry amount of bills it contained, “I only have fifteen bucks. You see, this story is going to be — ”

Dick Douglas grabbed the money and shoved it into his own pocket, “Yes, yes. The thing about the Basset Hound Brigade. Fifteen bucks will do.”

“It’s all I have,” said Arlo, “That and this camera.”

“Huh. That’s a nice camera,” said Dick, reaching over and grabbing the camera. Since it was latched to Arlo’s neck, it wasn’t going without a fight, “I’ll take that, too.”

“I can’t give you my camera,” said Arlo, struggling against Dick, “I have pictures on it that I need for my story.”

Dick continued to pull, trying to free the camera from Arlo’s grasp, “Uh, I’ll give you the pictures. Just give me the camera and I’ll help you with your story.”

Arlo sighed and unlatched the camera, “All right. Fine. Here’s the camera. When will you give me the pictures?”

Dick began fiddling with any button or latch he could find on his new device, “Right now. How do I open it?”

“No! You’ll ruin my pictures! You’ll ruin — ” shouted Arlo, nearly leaping over the desk to save his photographs. He was too late, however, as Dick pushed a button and the back of the camera opened up, spilling out film, “– my pictures. You just ruined my pictures.”

“Did I? I never used a camera before,” Dick looked at the camera and tossed it on the ground, shattering its lens, “Oh well. It just so happens that I know where these Fox Hound Coalition fellows are holed up, and pardon my French, but they’re a pain in my rear. It’ll be a pleasure to help you take them down. I’ll even do it free of charge.”

Arlo stared at him, his face pale, “You just took my camera and all the money I have.”

“I mean from this point forward it’ll be free of charge,” said Dick, “Plus expenses, of course. Now let’s go, if we hurry we’ll be able to catch all of them. Including their ring-leader!”

The color returned to Arlo’s face and his eyes glistened, “You mean Mister Lucky? Golly, if I could just get an ounce of dirt on him, it’ll undo all the damage you’ve already done to my blossoming career! It’s a deal!”

Dick Douglas stood up and strode to the door, “Let’s go take down some Fox Hounds!”

Arlo stood up and followed him, “You mean Bassets?”

Dick opened the door and the pair walked out, “Whatever!”

***

Dick Douglas and Arlo Flannery stood in front of the Fox’s Den after wandering around the city for an hour and a half, consisting of Dick trying to remember where he was going and, once he remembered, where the place he was going was.

Arlo turned to Dick, “I was just here an hour ago.”

“Yeah?” said Dick, “Well, now we’re back here again, and this time we’ll bring down Mister Lucky. Hey, do you have a notebook I can borrow?”

Arlo stared at the detective, clutching his jacket close to his body, “I need my notebook. It has all the information I have on the Bassets so far, and I won’t be able to write down anything about Mister Lucky if I don’t have it. So I’d really rather not give you my notebook.”

Dick glared at him, “Listen, do you want me to solve this case?”

“Well, yes, but — ” stammered Arlo.

“Then give me the notebook!”

“Fine,” Arlo relented, pulling his notebook from his jacket and handing it over. He pulled out a pen, “Do you need this too?”

Dick grabbed the notebook and the pen, “I thought that went without saying.”

“Oh well,” said Arlo, rubbing his hands together with malevolent glee, “When I bring down Mister Lucky, it’ll more than make up for it!”

“All right. Knock on the door,” said Dick.

Arlo looked at Dick as if the detective had just told him to shoot the president, “Why?”

Dick smiled in what he hoped was a cunning way, “How else do you expect to get in?”

“I thought you had a way in!” said Arlo.

“Yes, knocking on the front door,” Dick pointed to the door, “It’s the perfect plan. They’ll never expect it.”

“If you say so,” said Arlo, who walked up the steps and knocked on the door.

It opened to reveal Jojo Jenkins, whose eyes bulged in surprise, “Hello? What you doing back here, Mister Douglas? Why’d you bring the newspaper man with you?”

Suspicions began to rise in Arlo’s mind, “What is he talking about?”

“Never you mind,” said Dick, pushing Arlo out of the way, “Let me in, Jojo. My client and I have business to attend to.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Mister Douglas,” said Jojo, standing his ground.

“As your employer, I demand you let me in or I’ll not feed you for a week!” said Dick.

Jojo thought about bringing up the fact that Dick rarely remembered to buy any groceries and so he and Jojo had to dine nearly exclusively at the Fox’s Den, but thought better of it, “If you say so, Mister Douglas.”

The suspicions that had begun to rise had finished their ascent and were at the forefront of Arlo’s mind, “Wait, you’re that Dick Douglas?”

Dick stopped as if he had been stricken through the heart, “There’s more than one?” He regained his composure and continued walking, “They’re right through here.”

“So you’ve just been trying to trick me?” said Arlo, his face once again pale, his eyes sunken, looking for all the world as if someone had just shot his dog.

“No,” said Dick, “As I said, these Bassets are a pain in my rear. And they’re right through here!”
Dick swung a door open, revealing the Basset Hound Brigade, all of whom had changed their clothes. A set of fake IDs was sitting on the desk and someone had brought in a chalkboard and written down a list of locations with the heading “New Headquarters?”

Mister Lucky turned to the newcomers, dressed in a mortarboard and gown, “Dick? What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m helping to bring you and this crooked organization down,” said Dick smugly, “Why are you all dressed like that?”

“Well, he decided to do what’s right, not what you say,” said Arlo, who actually had no idea what was going on but was going to make the most of it, “As well he should, since I gave him all my money, my camera, and my notebook! I have virtually no proof of your wrongdoing other than my word!”

Mister Lucky stared at Arlo, then at Dick, “Is this true? You took all his stuff?”

“I sure did,” said Dick, in the middle of tossing the notebook and pen into a fireplace.

“Did you mean to?” said Mister Lucky, “I mean, did you plan to take all of his stuff?”

“I certainly did,” said Dick.

“So, wait,” said Mister Lucky, taking off his mortarboard and scratching his head, “You took all the proof he had. And all his money.”

“That’s what I did,” said Dick.

“So you actually,” started Mister Lucky, trying to force the rest of the words through his mind and out his mouth, “Saved the Basset Hound Brigade?”

“Yeah, I guess I did,” said Dick, shoving the Little Spick off a couch and reclining upon it, “Maybe I planned it all along.”

Arlo Flannery stood in front of Dick and removed his hat, “Dick Douglas, you’re the most cunning and devious man I’ve ever met. I take off my hat to you, and it’s clear that in any battle of wits, I’ll quickly lose to you. Any organization with you as a member must be top-notch do-gooders.”

“Yeah, that’s right, spread the word,” said Dick. Arlo nodded, put on his hat, and hurried out the door.

Mister Lucky turned to Mister Frink, “Did you have anything to do with this, Frinky?”

“No,” replied Mister Frink.

“I need to go lie down. This is just too much,” said Mister Lucky as he removed his gown and exited the room, “Good job, Dick. Good job saving the day.”

The sunlight poked through the curtains of the Impossible Mister Frink’s quarters, slowly engulfing the modest hotel suite he called home in a dank light. He grumbled to himself and rolled over, pulling his nightcap over his ears to block out a din coming from other room in the hotel. The whole situation was not to his liking, and he ached to return to his rooms at Oxford with the terrible beds and cobweb-infested windows. He could get a decent night’s sleep there, and he could be certain that any noise he heard could be quelled with the threat of expulsion or some sort of reading assignment. Yet, as a member of the Basset Hound Brigade, he was counted on to reside in New York, though he refused to stay at the Fox’s Den, the storied home of the Basset Hound Brigade.

Mister Frink attempted to roll over, but knew that there was no stopping Mister Lucky once he set his mind upon something and so he rolled onto his back and sat up, “What the devil? Mister Lucky, why are you in my private rooms?”

Mister Frink folded his arms across his chest, “Yes! It’s quite impossible for us to take a day off!” Slowly, Mister Frink realized that he had activated his power to affect probability, which rendered the impossible quite possible indeed, “Oh, drat. I’ve done it again.”

Mister Lucky dug through Mister Frink’s closet and pulled out a suitcase, and then took it over to the wardrobe and began tossing various items in, “You sure have! What do you want to do with your day off?”

“I’d quite like to return to my slumber,” said Mister Frink, already reclining and shutting his eyes.

Mister Lucky stopped packing the suitcase and leapt atop the bed, grabbing Mister Frink by his lapels and pulling him up, panic dripping from his every word, “And waste your day off? We should go somewhere! Far, far away! For a very long time!” He laughed nervously, then leapt off the bed and resumed packing.

Sensing that his slumber was over for the time being, Mister Frink removed his covers and walked behind an oriental screen, a gift from an Oriental trader the Bassets had helped previously, “What are you blathering on about?”

Mister Lucky tossed Mister Frink a gray three-piece suit and sat down on the bed, “I got a message from the Nantucket Dragon Group. They’re going to set off a series of bombs in the city today and I don’t want to be here for that.”

Mister Frink emerged from behind the screen fully dressed and straightening his tie, “I’m surprised at your behavior! You are one of the foremost adventurers of this age, and here you are acting like a common coward! I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you’re addled, for some reason, but we not must turn our backs on this crisis! We must join up with Douglas and the rest and — ”

Mister Lucky slumped forward, removing his bowler hat and putting his forehead in his hands, “They’ve all been kidnapped, Frinky. Every last one. Even Jojo and the Little Spick, and some ancillary member we just inducted last night and who’ll probably be dead before this whole thing is over.”

Mister Frink froze momentarily, “We must save them, even if it seems impossible for us to do so!”

“Oh, damn it. Fine. Let’s go save our…” Mister Lucky ran a few words through his head, found one he was happy with, and continued, “Let’s go save our allies from the clutches of the Nantucket Dragon Group and avert a city-wide disaster.”

“Indeed! First, let us eat breakfast. One can’t operate properly without a full stomach, and I sense that your stomach is very empty indeed,” said Mister Frink, ringing the bell to summon room service.

Mister Lucky smiled pathetically and nodded, “Okay!”

***

In a warehouse across town, the rest of the Basset Hound Brigade was, indeed, in the clutches of the sinister Nantucket Dragon Group.

Vinny Fitzpatrick scowled at the Dragons, “You’ll never get away wit’ this!”

Shoshy Raphael, sleepy-eyed and sharply dressed in a white suit with a fur-lined coat draped across his shoulders, laughed once, “Oh, but I think we will! Just to show you how serious we are we have secured your newest member, Quick-Exit Quinton, to our deadly explosion apparatus!”

Dick Douglas began frothing at the mouth and fighting against his bonds, “You fiend! Let him go and take me instead!”

Vinny tried to turn to look at his detective compatriot but only managed to get his head half-way turned, “I’ve never seen you so worked up about anyone, Mister Dick!”

Dick Douglas stopped struggling for a moment and closed his eyes solemnly, bowing his head and gritting his teeth, “In the short time I’ve known him, he’s become like a brother to me.”

Shoshy Raphael tapped his ivory cane against the floor and smiled maniacally, “All the more reason to destroy him! Amazing Rando, are his bonds secure?”

“Hizzah!” The magician Amazing Rando waved his hands mystically and stroked his immaculate mustache, “Nothing up my sleeve, no slack in the bonds! Let’s make him disappear!”

Simon McCockindale was the final link in this chain of power, “Energy!”

Thin beams of multi-colored light emanated from the rings, arcing towards the sky and quickly descending and meeting in the center of the five members of the Nantucket Dragon Group. As the five beams met, a hellish rainbow drilled towards the Earth and in a flash of fire and brimstone a demonic hobo emerged.

“Blimey! What’s all this, then?” said Baggy Satan, waving his arms to escape the smoke. He recognized his surroundings and rolled his eyes, “Not you lot again.”

“Yes! Baggy Satan, pull the lever that will activate the machine to destroy Quick-Exit Quinton!” shouted Shoshy Raphael, pointing towards the explosion apparatus and a lever not five feet from Simon McCockindale.

Baggy Satan looked from Shoshy Raphael to the lever, and back, and back again, “Really? I could just blast ’em wit’ the ol’ hellfire, I could, or any number o’ creative and ‘orrifying t’ings.”

Shoshy Raphael replied, “The lever, Baggy Satan!”

Baggy Satan floated up to the lever, trying to ignore Simon McCockindale as he did so, “Whatever you say, guv’nar.”

Baggy Satan pulled the lever and the machine below him started slowly, rumbling softly, sounding somewhat like an oncoming train. The Basset Hound Brigade watched in terror as the Nantucket Dragon Group looked on with glee as Quick-Exit Quinton quickly tried to free himself from bondage. An escape artist by trade, he easily freed one of his hands and reached down to undo his feet. With each foot, the machine rumbled louder and more quickly, until Quick-Exit Quinton reached up to free his other hand. As he did so, an explosion erupted from the machine, engulfing Quinton and leaving behind nothing but a singed hand which tumbled into the bowels of the machine.

Shoshy Raphael laughed, “He’s just the first! We shall kill every last one of you do-gooders, as our machine runs on the power of virtuous souls, and we shall use those virtue-laden souls to destroy the city!”

“You people are mad!” shouted Vinny Fitzpatrick.

“Only because that fool Mister Lucky isn’t here to witness my triumph!” said Shoshy Raphael, completely unaware that Mister Lucky was across town arguing with Mister Frink about toast.

Dick Douglas looked around and gestured to his African-American gardener and a young Hispanic man, “Too bad the Jojo and the Little Spick are knocked out. I’m sure they could use their native magicks to free themselves, and then us.”

Guy Magistro had no such qualms, however, and was chucking his magical eggs at the orphans as they ran about the warehouse over-turning boxes and making a general mess of things. As the eggs burst, unleashing various magical effects such as bursts of ice and fire, the orphans screamed and fell to the ground. However, Brachiosaur was finishing up his work.

Vinny looked around. The Nantucket Dragon Group were nowhere to be seen, nor was their machine, “I think they left while we was talkin’.”

Dick Douglas smiled and rubbed his hands together, “Great! Another case solved. Let’s go get us a drink.”

***

Elsewhere in the city, the Nantucket Dragon Group sat atop their incredibly slow-moving explosion apparatus as it made its way towards the center of the city. Amazing Rando attempted to practice his card tricks while Guy Magistro chucked his magic eggs at passer-by and laughing. Guerdon Trueblood stood with his arms folded, looking over the white man’s domain. Simon McCockindale sat with his legs dangling off the side of the apparatus, wondering if he should use his energy ring to increase the apparatus’s speed. He opted not to, as Shoshy Raphael was standing on the edge and gesturing out towards the city and ranting. Speeding up would no doubt cause him to fall off. Simon McCockindale’s monkey climbed on the outside of the machine while Baggy Satan hovered some distance behind.

“We shall take this apparatus to the very center of the city where we shall use its awesome power to destroy the centers of population,” he shouted, occasionally pointing at a pedestrian.

“Not to be cheeky, sir, but ain’t the whole city a center of population?” said Simon, listlessly waving his legs.

Shoshy Raphael turned to Simon, “That’s now what I meant and you know it.”

“I guess, sir,” said Simon, as he went back to his ponderings.

Shoshy Raphael pointed at the still-rising sun, “In any case, this shall be the first strike of the Nantucket Dragon Group’s war against the world!”

Several streets in front of them, a ghostly voice traveled on the wind, its sing-song cadence heard only by one man, “Here comes Mister Lucky, sad that he missed the handsome young boys…”

Mister Lucky scowled and whispered harshly, “Shut up, you!”

“I didn’t say anything,” said Mister Frink, frowning.

“Never mind, Frinky,” said Mister Lucky, “Here they come! Let’s go!”

Mister Lucky and Mister Frink stepped into the straight, causing the already nearly immobile explosion apparatus to become completely stationary. Shoshy Raphael looked down upon his enemies, “Oh, drat! It’s the rest of the Basset Hound Brigade. No matter, it’s still seven against two!”

The Nantucket Dragon Group descended from atop the explosion apparatus and took up a battle formation in front of the two members of the Basset Hound Brigade. Mister Lucky stood firm, “Too bad you’re facing off against the Luckiest Man in the World!”

“Just what I needed to hear, Frinky! Let’s have it!” said Mister Lucky, lashing out with a roundhouse punch.

It landed on the side of Simon McCockindale’s head, who cried out, “Oh no! I’ve been waylaid!” He slumped to the ground and his monkey dragged him away.

“A bit of fisticuffs, eh? Take this!” said Mister Frink, hitting Guy Magistro in the jaw with a right hook. The sorcerer fell to the ground in a slump. Mister Frink followed up by hitting the Amazing Rando with a right hook.

As the Amazing Rando fell, he said, “Now I see you, now I don’t, because I’m unconscious now!”

Mister Lucky found himself facing the man-mountain known as Guerdon Trueblood, and so he attempted to appeal to the Native American warrior’s better nature, “Your proud native American heritage can’t possibly agree with using innocent souls in a death machine, Trueblood!”

Trueblood looked down at him, “It does when they’re the souls of the white man.”

Mister Lucky smiled and wagged his finger, “In that case…”

A flowerpot fell from the sky and hit Guerdon Trueblood square in the head, knocking him unconscious.

“That flowerpot came out of nowhere,” said Shoshy Raphael, hissing.

“Did it?” said Mister Lucky with a wink, “It’s your turn, Shoshy! Give up and we’ll go easy on you!”

Shoshy Raphael stepped back, holding his ivory cane up as if to repel Mister Lucky, “Not so fast, Lucky! You forget that we have the power of Hell on our side! Baggy Satan, transport us back to our secret headquarters and destroy this machine! Farewell, Mister Lucky! We won’t meet again, because you’re going to die!”

Baggy Satan groaned and waved his hands, causing the Nantucket Dragon Group to vanish into thin air. Mister Lucky and Mister Frink braced themselves for the destruction of the explosion apparatus, but it simply fell apart.

“Well, that was a let-down,” said Mister Lucky.

“I believe they sought to have it explode. They should have given their demon more explicit instructions,” said Mister Frink.

“Well, then, I suppose today really is our lucky day!” said Mister Lucky, picking up a piece of the machine to examine.

“It will never be a lucky day so long as their evil roams the world,” said Mister Frink solemnly.

[Mister Frink and Shrugs are digging around a supplies closet, looking for supplies. So far, Mister Frink has a box filled with gears and other machinery-type things. Shrugs, meanwhile, has a broomstick and a bag of packing peanuts.]Mister Frink: What do you have there?[Shrugs holds up his supplies]Mister Frink: I say, aren’t you prohibited from using packing peanuts?[Shrugs makes a series of gestures which seem to explain that he has no idea when packing peanuts were invented, and therefore, they could have been around during the Civil War era. Mister Frink ponders this a moment, but decides not to explain the history of styrofoam.]Mister Frink: I think we’ve exhausted this place. Where to next?[Shrugs pulls out his chalkboard and writes, “COSTUMES” upon it.]Mister Frink: This place has a costume department?Shrugs: Nods.Mister Frink: Let’s away, then.[The pair walk down the hall to double-doors that says “COSTUMES” on it. Mournful singing emanates from within. Mister Frink opens the door and sees Vinny Fitzpatrick sitting on the floor, with a brown tweed suit-coat and bowler cap on top of his normal pilot’s clothing. He is holding a bottle of scotch and the singing is warbly, off-key, and incoherent.]Mister Frink: Good god, man!Vinny Fitzpatrick:Mister Lucky’s dead, Mister Frink, and I dinna do anything to stop it from happening.Mister Frink: There was nothing you could do, lad. Now give me those![Mister Frink takes the suit-coat and bowler hat, and the bottle of scotch, only to find that the bottle is unopened and, most likely, a prop.]Mister Frink: Now go find Douglas and Jenkins. Though Lucky is dead, the work of the Basset Hound Brigade must go on!Vinny Fitzpatrick: What work would that be?Mister Frink: I said go![Mister Frink picks up Vinny Fitzpatrick and tosses him out of the room.]Mister Frink: Hated to do that to the lad, but needs must. Now then… hold a moment, what do you have there?[Shrugs has found a box labeled “Mister Lucky” and places it on a nearby table. He takes out a knife and cuts the tape sealing the box and pulls out a gray suit.]Mister Frink: Oh dear. I believe that’s from “Rock Opera”. I’d heard rumors that the Stupid had it performed for one of his events, but I hoped that not even he would do something so evil.[Shrugs points from the box to his packing peanuts and broomstick.]Mister Frink: I suppose you could use it, but it wouldn’t be very accurate.Shrugs: Shrugs.[Shrugs takes the box, grabs a few sacks from a pile, and exits the room. Mister Frink takes the jacket and hat Vinny Fitzpatrick so recently vacated and moves to the table, and begins tinkering. An hour passes.]Lamp Prime: Okay, that’s enough time.[Mister Frink and Shrugs appear in a flash of light, while Mortimer never left the field. Mister Frink has a frightening automaton dressed in Mister Lucky’s clothes. Shrugs has made a scarecrow.]Lamp Prime: Let’s see what you have. Shrugs?[Shrugs holds up the scarecrow. The sacks have been filled with packing peanuts and stuck onto the broomstick. The clothes are awkwardly fitted over the sack, with the arms hanging loose at the sides. The head, including fake handlebar mustache, is rolled-up newspaper shoved into a pink balloon. Lamp Prime’s light dims slowly, then regains the brightness it had before the dimming.]Lamp Prime: That looks nothing like Mister Lucky. He never had a mustache. Never ever.Shrugs: Shrugs. Points.[Shrugs points to the box.]Lamp Prime: Is… is that from “Rock Opera”? Why are the “Rock Opera” supplies in my Hippodrome?Shrugs: Shrugs.Lamp Prime: Well, unless Frink did an especially poor job, I think you lose. Frink?Mister Frink: That would be Mister Frink, thank you.Lamp Prime: Don’t. Just don’t. Otherwise I’ll call you Hor —Mister Frink: Yes, then! Well, I built a rudimentary automaton. As you can see, I’ve yet to cover it with any sort of synthetic flesh or flesh substitute, so you can see the gears and whatnot.Lamp Prime: At least it’s dressed properly. What does it do?Mister Frink: Allow me to show you![Mister Frink presses a button on the automaton’s back. It begins to move jerkily and speak, though the voice it speaks in is less like Mister Lucky’s and more like Mister Frink emulating Mister Lucky.]Mister Luckyatron: Hello there, I’m Mister Lucky, and today seems to be your lucky day! But wait, there’s more!Lamp Prime: I see. It’s terrifying, but more accurate than the scarecrow. What if it turns evil?Mister Frink: It’s impossible for the robot to turn evil![As if by magic, which it pretty much is, Mister Luckyatron’s eyes turn blazing red and its hand turns into a long claw.]Mister Luckyatron: Hello there, I’m Mister Lucky, and today your luck has run out! But wait, there’s more! You’re all gonna die![Mister Luckyatron shambles into the stands and attempts to kill Pikapunk.]Pikapunk: No! Don’t kill me![Pikapunk blocks the robot’s claw, and then due to the immense stress of being attacked by a killer robot dressed like Mister Lucky, unleashes his psycho-kinetic upon the robot. It sizzles and falls to the ground, giving Pikapunk enough time to run away before it explodes. Lamp Prime, Mister Frink, and Shrugs stare at the smoldering husk.]Lamp Prime: Well, now it’s more accurate, because it’s dead, too. Thanks a lot, Frink. Thanks a whole heck of a lot.Mister Frink: Who wins?Lamp Prime: Who cares? I guess you do. Congratulations, you jerk.[Lamp Prime manifests a couch and darkens the Hippodrome. Shrugs shrugs and resumes whittling. Mister Frink looks around and leaves the Hippodrome to await his next challenge.]

Vinny Fitzpatrick: Meatsa ballsa! I’ve heard o’ lovin’ the Blessed Virgin, but this is takin’ it a might too far, boyo![Graves continues pounding his manmeat as the clock on the bomb ticks down, beeping the whole way.]Graves: Uhn. Theres, uhn, something about, uhn, Mary. Uhn, uhn.Vinny Fitzpatrick: Oh, if only Mr. Lucky were alive! He’d know what to do! He always knew what to do![Within, Vinny Fitzpatrick paces, his back turned to Graves. Outside of the bubble, the spectators are in a panic. They run back and forth through the bleachers, sometimes bumping into each other and knocking each other down as they go.]Player One:[gripping Lamp Prime‘s stem] You have the power to stop this!Lamp Prime: I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, the contest has begun. I can’t change the rules now.Player One: Yes you can!Lamp Prime: You bring up a good point. Unfortunately, you haven’t persuaded me. The event shall continue.[From up in the rafters, a shadow watches the event unfold below. He notices the panic-stricken spectators and the combatants within struggling to release themselves from this contest — or, in Graves‘s case, just to release his ejaculate all over the bomb. The shadowed figure pulls a conic item from his belt and turns a raised knob. Invisible radio waves dash through the air, slamming into the bomb. The clock comes to a stop. Vinny Fitzpatrick notices that the clock has stopped.]Vinny Fitzpatrick: You! Oh, you! You did it, boyo! You did it!Graves:[zipping up any turning around] I asked you nicely to shut the —[Vinny Fitzpatrick runs up to Graves and hugs him. Graves, unaware of his status as mistaken hero, attempts to pry Vinny Fitzpatrick‘s arms from his body. Lamp Prime dissipates the force fields around the two, allowing the crowd of spectators to rush in and pick up Graves. They toss Graves into the air and call for cheers (in spite of his pleas to put him down) and leave the arena, blissfully unaware of the shadowed figure’s involvement in this turn of events.]

[Several heroes enter the Hippodrome, taking their time to view the new screens and the enormous torch in the center of the arena. As the crowd grows, less and less room is left for the combatants.]Lamp Prime: Hmm. Well, we can always make room, I suppose.[A light blinks inside of Lamp Prime‘s ephemeral bulb as the center torch, monitors, audio equipment, and red carpets disappear instantly, jettisoned into oblivion. The mouths of Mark King and Baco hang open in disbelief, disgust, and disapproval.]Lamp Prime: Ahem. Welcome, everyone, to the Hippodrome!Baco: More like the hypocrite dome!Lamp Prime: I’ve asked you all to appear here today because, in my vast benevolence, I did not want a single one of you to miss an opportunity to see the event that is about to unfold before you. Behold, in the center of the arena![A blue translucent bubble appears in the very center of the arena. Within the bubble is a relatively large object covered in a black tarpaulin.]Lamp Prime: What you see before you is an ordinary force field. Within it lies the key to the next event! And behold, from opposite ends of the arena spew forth your champions![Spotlights appear and sit on each respective entrance. Graves and Vinny Fitzpatrick both walk in from the same side, forcing one spotlight to move from its location and shine on the same side as the other.]Vinny Fitzpatrick: Mama mia, you didn’t wear the bloody black arm band?Graves: Good observation, Sherlock. What gave it away, the fact that my arm is sans arm band? Or maybe it was the fact that there is no arm band on my arm…?Vinny Fitzpatrick: Faith and begorah, our comrade in arms has given his life in these events. The least you could do is show some respect.Graves: I didn’t know him, pops. Besides, have you noticed that I’m wearing Catholic priest’s garb? A black arm band wouldn’t show up, anyway.Vinny Fitzpatrick: Madonn!Lamp Prime: Enough bickering. It’s obvious that Graves is a jerk, and it’s obvious that you’re in mourning, Vinny. We all are. Except for Graves, apparently. But the show must go on, and go on it shall!Graves:[to Vinny Fitzpatrick, within earshot of Lamp Prime] He gets crabby when he blows all his money on stupid shit, doesn’t he?Lamp Prime: Wha — ? Who told you — ?[Lamp Prime slowly turns to Baco and Mark King, who both swallow hard.]Lamp Prime: I’ll have a talk with you two later.[Lamp Prime turns back to Graves and Vinny Fitzpatrick.]Lamp Prime:[yelling] Get in the bubble![Vinny Fitzpatrick jumps in the bubble right away, afraid of angering Lamp Prime and reaping his wrath. Graves casually saunters up to the bubble, pokes at it with his finger, and then steps inside.]Lamp Prime: Now… Vinny, if you would be so kind as to remove the tarp, please![Vinny Fitzpatrick tugs at one end of the tarpaulin, making sure that it isn’t fastened to the object. Satisfied that it is not, he pulls hard on the tarpaulin, freeing the object beneath in one smooth motion. The mystery object is revealed to be a metallic mass of multi-colored wires, tubes, and flashing lights, with a control panel on the side facing Graves. The crowd reacts with muffled confusion. Above the control panel is a plaque quoting Oppenheimer: “I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds.” Without warning, the bubble around the two combatants grows, enveloping the entire arena in the force field. A smaller red force field appears, encapsulating Graves and Vinny Fitzpatrick.]Player One: Uh… what just happened?Lamp Prime: I’ve increased the size of the blue force field to keep any of you from leaving. It’s also to keep any debris from escaping the immediate area.Player One: Debris?Player Two: And what about the red one…?Lamp Prime: That is to keep any of you from getting in to interrupt the event.Player One: Why would we want to do that, again?Lamp Prime: Oh, right. I forgot to tell you. The machine you see before you is a nuclear bomb and it will be up to these two champions to disarm it.[The spectators panic as soon as the word “nuclear bomb” is uttered.]Player One: A nuclear bomb?!Logan Keanu Solo: You expect Graves to disarm a nuclear bomb?!Mister Frink: Graves? He’ll likely have a better shot than Vincenzo in there. In fact, I’d say it’s impossible for either of them to disarm that bomb.Player One: Does the red force field at least minimize the damage the radiation could potentially do to the rest of us?Lamp Prime: Haha, where would the fun be in that?Player One: Are you insane?!Lamp Prime: Easy, now, Gamer One. Have faith in your fellows. The bomb won’t explode for at least another ten minutes. I’ve no doubt that one of these two brave champions can disarm the weapon.[Inside the bubble, Graves places a hand to his chin as he considers the bomb. Vinny Fitzpatrick paces behind the bomb.]Vinny Fitzpatrick: Did you hear that? We’ve only ten minutes to shut this thing off!Graves: Uh huh.Vinny Fitzpatrick: What are we gonna do? Oh, how I wish —Graves: If you were going to say what I think you were going to say, save it. He’s not coming.Vinny Fitzpatrick: Then what do you propose we do?! I haven’t the faintest idea of how to stop one of these… things!Graves: We pray. We pray until we receive guidance.[The Paci Custodis madness that afflicts all warriors who march under the Paci Custodis banner is immediately triggered in Graves‘s head. He places his left hand in his left pocket and removes a holy card displaying a picture of the Virgin Mary. Holding the card in his right hand and staring at it intently, Graves slides his left hand once again into his pocket. Vinny Fitzpatrick notices the vigorous tugging coming from within the crotch area of Grave’s pants.]Vinny Fitzpatrick: Ah, for — have you no respect at all, me lad?Graves: Uhn. Can’t talk. Uhn. Uhn. Praying.Vinny Fitzpatrick:[throwing his hands into the air] Flibberty gibbet! If only he were here…!

Howard Cosell: Here we are in the final battle of the first round of March Meekrat Madness 2010! Today we bring to you Vinny Fitzpatrick and Johnny Justice in a battle of cunning, a battle of Clue!Comte Saint Germain:The winner is the first one to not accidentally impale themselves on the game pieces.Vinny Fitzpatrick: I’ll make Mister Lucky proud, I will, and solve this mystery!Johnny Justice: You’re going down, child labor demon.Vinny Fitzpatrick: I don’t be making children work, you daft old man! And if I did, it’d be a sight better than what you do to them.Johnny Justice: I RESCUE children, you exploitative ass.Vinny Fitzpatrick: Sure you do, and I’m sure that’s why you give them suckers from your nethers!Johnny Justice: Do you see pockets on this outfit?Vinny Fitzpatrick: That’s a load of bull-hockey and you know it.Johnny Justice: Well, where would you store them?Vinny Fitzpatrick: Not by my nethers, certainly! Maybe one of the Orphan Freelance could follow me around carrying the candy.Johnny Justice: Child labor is wrong.Vinny Fitzpatrick: Mister Lucky says it’s not child labor if you force ’em to work!
[Johnny Justice hits Vinny Fitzpatrick with the game board and keeps beating him]Johnny Justice: It’s not labor if I force you to take this beating, vile creature!Vinny Fitzpatrick: OW! This isn’t part of the game!Johnny Justice: It was me in the game arena with the game board, you ass!
[Johnny Justice stops beating Vinny Fitzpatrick and storms out]Comte Saint Germain:I think that counts as a disqualification.Howard Cosell: There you have it, the winner by default, Vinny Fitzpatrick.